


twilight, an eidolon

by celestiana (colourwhirled)



Category: Cardcaptor Sakura
Genre: F/M, Heavy Angst, Unrequited Love, forever hiatus, i suck I know, post-void fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-30
Updated: 2008-02-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 00:29:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12594004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colourwhirled/pseuds/celestiana
Summary: There is no such thing as coincidence. And Syaoran is about to find out why..."I told you that one day, I would remember you. I would remember that I lived and died for you, Sakura."[Post Void fic. AU-ish. Dark SxS][[originally posted on fanfiction.net in 2008, x-posting for archival]]





	1. void

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: CCS is property of CLAMP
> 
> AUTHOR'S NOTES: as stated before, this was originally posted on ff.net many years ago and is being transferred here for archival. this will not be continued. i am the worst.

_twilight, an eidolon_

**twilight:**  1. the soft diffused light from the sky when the sun is below the horizon. ... 4. a state of uncertainty, vagueness, or gloom.

 **eidolon:** 1\. a phantom; apparition. 2. an ideal

* * *

**chapter one. void**

The clock barely has time to toll five o'clock before he wakes suddenly, forcefully, a good hour before he's supposed to. He sits up in bed, panting slightly, his half-asleep eyes feverish with sepulchred visions, his hair tousled and damp. There is a pallor about his face that doesn't seem healthy, a pallor that can't be explained, incredibly, by the six-inch accumulation of snow and ice that is freezing the life out of everybody he knows. He runs his hands through his hair, feeling the astonishing heat that rises out of his scalp, slightly surprised at the coldness of his fingers as he buries his head in his hands.

The grandfather clock in the foyer is chiming, calling out the time softly to the sleep-ridden mausoleum. The deep rhythm soothes him, the steady beat of five-in-the-morning calming his rapidly beating heart, ferrying him safely away from the same nightmare that has been disturbing his sleep for the last nineteen years, and grounding him to his reality: the nightmare that he has been living for the same amount of time.

Despite the fact that he has another hour before the world expects him in its midst, he gets up anyway. Long years of experience have taught him well; that it is futile to attempt to revisit the land of slumber after a jarring nightmare. He peels back the covers and slips out of bed, his bare feet padding silently on the carpeted floor out of habit rather than out of fear of waking his wife, enviably luxurious in her restful sleep.

Without much thought, he slips into his usual routine, splashing ice-cold water on his face, showering quickly, swinging into the kitchen for a bite. He does this all in the half-dark, never bothering to turn on the main lights. Strangely enough, it is now, in the quiet morning, so early it might almost be considered late, that he feels most alive. He concedes that his existence is paltry, fleeting, vampiric almost, and if his mother could fathom the depth of the indifference that drives his life, she would be at once appalled and empathetic. Because she knows what it feels like, to live without really living, to slave for false idols, to be emotionally incapable of real feeling because, well...

He sits down with a cup of black coffee, seeking solace in its bitter strength, trusting it to jar him into complete wakefulness. In this transitory period between waking and dawn, he allows himself to be honest, allows himself to dwell on just how much he hates his life. He hates everything about it, from the monotonous swell of his grandiose and glamourous job right down to his wife and simpering in-laws. He hates the country he lives in, hates the constant swell of attention and bright lights and insincerity that is a fixed variable in his life. At times, he wishes he could go back home, back to Hong Kong, where in the midst of the hustle and bustle, he feels calm and whole. But the Elders won't allow him to do so, and neither will his wife. It is in Europe and North America that the future of the company lies, the Elders argue, and his wife echoes their sentiments. This is home, she means to tell him, though she can't quite articulate this in her constant search for glamour and fame (but he understands her well enough after nineteen years of marriage), this is where his – no, correction  _\- their_  two kids have made their place in the world. At which point he snorts inwardly, because his eighteen-year-old son and fifteen-year-old daughter are far too young to have made a place for themselves anywhere, let alone in a jungle as convoluted and inconsistent as the world.

It definitely doesn't feel like home.

Precisely at six, he hears the telltale sound of the mailman jiggling the lid of the mailbox. He waits for a minute, until he is sure that the man has left his doorstep, before opening the door and relieving the box of its contents. As he scatters the wares onto the foyer floor, he notes a small parcel, unremarkably packaged in brown corrugated cardboard and straw-like string. It is addressed to him, Mr. Syaoran Li, the address and details printed boldly on a peeling white sticker. After a moment, he remembers the book he ordered and, after quickly organizing the day's post on the dining room table, he moves into the library and opens the parcel.

Contrary to his wife's beliefs, it is not a volume of investing advice written by some bigshot broker (as if he needed it). Instead, a glossy hardcover slips into his hands, of medium thickness and abstract shadowy design. The title reads  _Broken Mirrors_ , the author is some psychiatrist, a Dr. Saori Lee, whose contribution to the literary world is a detailed narration chronicling the onset of depression and the science behind it. Ironically, he believes this is the one thing he needs. Not the depression. He doesn't need a book to tell him that he's depressed. But he needs a break from the taut artificial optimism of everyday life, a relief from pretending day in and day out, that he is the ideal man, the ideal husband, the ideal father. He is tired of living up to everyone's expectations but his own, yet he can't remember the last time he had wishes of his own. His memory divides as he remembers his childhood, somehow recalling a childhood that was as bleak as the rest of his life yet simultaneously, filled with breaths of innocence and colour. He remembers disconnected things, feathers, flying, red-backed cards, green eyes...

These fragmented images haunt him in his nightmares, making sense only in the warped twilight of sleep. He thinks he might be revisiting something of his past he has forced himself to forget. Something mysterious that has inexplicably, to this very day, contributed to the heavy burden he carries in his chest. Something that is responsible for the hollowness he feels every time his wife wraps her arms around him, or as he watches his son and sees the seed of himself in his teenage features. But the notion is fanciful, absurd almost. It is fantasy, romanticism that doesn't belong in this monotonous life.

As he puts the book away and heads back to his bedroom, he sees that the lights are on in his daughter's room, and he remembers that she has school today. It is the start of her second semester in the tenth grade, he notes unconsciously. For a moment he feels guilty, for being so absentminded and indifferent a father. But truth be told, if there's one person in the world that he cares about, it's her. At fifteen, she hasn't won any tournaments, nor has she ever placed in any dean's list. She has never topped her class, ever. She doesn't visit him at the office like her older brother did, she doesn't ask him for an early internship or a summer desk job. She is, in all respects, perfectly ordinary, perfectly unaffected by the weight of her surname. And for this, he loves her and envies her. It is in her that he sees the future. It is in her that he vests all of his hope.

He prays everyday that she does not succumb to her fate like her brother did. Like he did.

Because she is the embodiment of everything he needs. Innocence. Sincerity. And hope.

He needs hope.

* * *


	2. friendship

_twilight, an eidolon_

* * *

**chapter two. friendship**

Aya stands in the doorway of her new bedroom. It is a mess of large cardboard boxes, half-open suitcases and miscellaneous objects in the process of being unpacked (which means they will probably languish on the dark hardwood floor collecting dust for the next few days until she has the energy to set everything in order). The blinds on the windows don't work properly: rays of sunshine still seep into the darkened room, little beams of whiteness growing jagged on overturned books, yet-to-be assembled furniture, even illuminating the faded pattern of green leaves and white petals embroidered onto her pillowcase...

Yes, she concludes to herself as she breathes in deeply, savouring rather than choking on the slightly sweet, slightly rancid taste of the musty air. Her room is a mess.

And for some reason, she likes it. She feels rejuvenated whenever she sees herself amidst complete and utter disarray. The chaos reminds her that this is a new beginning. That, like countless times before, she will be able to pick up the scattered pieces of her old life sprawled upon the ground and rearrange it into something beautiful, something simple, something unique and most definitely unprecedented. Creation in a box, as she likes to think of it. Every day, somewhere in the galaxy, a new star is born from its nebulous components; a process belied by the steady twinkle of starlight, millions of years in the making. Even the universe was built with a bang.

The sound of a door slamming somewhere downstairs jolts her out of her contemplative stupours. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Aya turns her gaze away from her bedroom and out into the hallway.

She sees her mother coming, gliding (for lack of a better word to describe her smooth, uninterrupted progress) up the stairs and down the hall to her side. She places her hands on Aya's shoulders, asking her if she is alright, whether she likes the room or not, if she is comfortable with starting school the next day.

Aya has no qualms and assures her mother that yes, she is fine, she loves the room and of course she would like to go to school the next day. Even if it is in the middle of the winter and starting school at the beginning of spring semester is never an easy thing. But year in and year out, she has done precisely this, with the same cheer that her mother displayed to the world when she was about her age, maybe a bit younger.

And so early the next morning, Aya and her mother set off to enroll her in the high school ten blocks away. It is not the closest school to their new home, but it is safer compared to the public schools further west. Aya wears the school uniform already, her bag filled with plenty of lined paper, her wallet containing her birth certificate and student IDs from eight different schools. Her mother carries her checkbook with her, to pay the hefty deposit required for registration.

They arrive in a campus that looks more like Camp Paradise than it does a school, and after they are ushered to the dean's office, they are offered tea and biscuits heaped on ornamental silver flatware. Aya's eyes widen slightly, lingering on the mahogany hardwood, the gleaming rosewood window shutters, the ancient yet elegant architecture around her. It doesn't seem like a school at all...

"Name?" the dean asks warmly, shaking first Aya's hand and then her mother's.

"Sakura," Aya's mother introduces herself. "I believe I spoke to someone about enrolling Aya - my daughter - here last week?"

The dean remembers her instantly, producing a fresh registration form for the two of them to fill out.

"It's incredible," he remarks, gazing at the two of them through well-polished glasses, "just how much Aya resembles you, Dr. Lee."

Registration is completed in a matter of minutes. After the dean folds the form and files it into an ebony cabinet and accepts Sakura's deposit in a sealed envelope, he directs Aya to the guidance office where she can pick up her timetable for the semester. He even assures Sakura that Aya will have a student or two in the same classes as her, to show her the way around and such.

By the time Sakura leaves for her first day working in this new town and Aya heads off to her first period class, it is fifteen minutes into first period. The halls are deserted as she wanders around, trying to find her classroom. Consequently, when she finally finds it, she is made to enter the room alone, in front of fifteen other peers.

Her teacher receives her kindly enough, doesn't reprimand her for being late, and informs Aya that she seats the class in alphabetical order. She is assigned a seat next to a tall Chinese girl in the middle row and is given her textbooks. The other students don't pay Aya much attention; they are too busy examining their recently completed exams, looking for marks they think they can convince the teacher to give them. She doesn't mind as she pulls out her timetable and looks at her classes.

"You have the same classes as I do," the Chinese girl says suddenly.

Aya starts; she hadn't even noticed the girl's amber gaze on the sheet of paper in her hands. She smiles and goes through the same introduction speech she has used in countless schools before this, to countless friends.

The Chinese girl reciprocates, introducing herself as Iris Li. She has an older brother, Eric, who graduated from the same school last year top of his class with a handful of admission offers around the world, and now is in his first year at LSE _._

Aya's eyes grow round at such credentials as she replies that she's an only child. But both her parents attended St. Andrews. 

"I've always wanted to go to St. Andrews!" Iris claims dramatically. "Scotland is so beautiful – have you been there?"

"Yes, I was born there," Aya replies, rather solemnly.

Their friendship is sealed.

That afternoon, Aya is surprised to see her mother waiting for her in the parking lot to drive her home. She is aware that it is Sakura's first day working in this town, aware that taking time off this early is a luxury that her mother will have to compensate for later. She knows that she could have easily taken a bus home, that there is no legitimate reason for her mother to come all this way. But the gesture of sacrifice does not go unappreciated.

Aya understands her mother's intentions, the capacity of her mother's love for her, and rewards her with a smile and a warm hug. Unlike most teenagers her age, she does not hide her mother from view; instead, she takes Sakura's hand and introduces her to her new friend. Iris is overjoyed to meet Aya's mother, a living breathing St. Andrews alumnus, and after squealing incoherently for a good five minutes over how Aya looks exactly like her, presses Sakura with question after question. How did she get in? What was it like there? How long did she study there? What did she study?

Sakura smiles wearily: it has been a long day for her. A part of her subconsciously recognizes the girl standing before her; though Iris's warm personality is entirely unfamiliar, she sees the traces of her father's features in her. Before inquiring of Iris's origins, a part of her already suspects, already knows.

"Can Iris come home with us?" Aya asks her mother. "Please, Okaa-san?"

Sakura sighs resignedly. Her daughter is a girl after her own heart. It is only the first day of school, and she has already attached herself to someone. Maybe for this reason only, Sakura does not fear for her daughter's future. She does not fear her daughter facing a future identical to hers, for all they share the same face. Her daughter is stronger, her daughter is blessed with a normal life.

Sakura allows Iris to come over for the afternoon, on the condition that she obtains permission from her parents.

At the mention of parents, Iris's cheerful demeanor falters slightly. She says casually that her mother is out of town and her dad is at work, immersed in the only world he knows. With an offhand laugh, she claims that by the time he receives her message, she will already be home anyway.

Aya glances at Iris knowingly, sympathetically. At this moment, Sakura knows that her daughter has found the perfect friend. She recognizes the faraway look in Iris's amber eyes painfully. It is the same expression she sees in her daughter's gaze every time she thinks of her father.

Iris comes home with them that afternoon. Sakura offers to drive her home, but Iris declines the invitation politely. She doesn't want to be a bother. When she announces that her ride home has arrived, she merely slips out the door with a wave and a smile. As Sakura glances out the window onto the darkened street, she sees a black stretch limo drive away from the driveway.

"I wonder how she got home," Aya muses, finishing up the last of the introductory trigonometry homework she has been assigned in class.

Sakura says nothing. She continues gazing out the window, though the limo has long disappeared from view. Even as the sky darkens and the world fades from view, she remains planted by the window. Her gaze is inward, however.

At the moment, her mind is focused on one thing, and one thing alone. And it is not the full moon that her eyes are fixed upon.

She wonders whether his life is as empty as hers is. But unlike him, she does not allow herself to hope.

After all, hope is for the fortunate.

* * *

 


	3. intersection

_twilight, an eidolon_

* * *

**chapter three. intersection**

The next morning, Iris wakes up to find a slim rectangular package placed on her pillow. There is a card attached to it. It is from her father. He writes to tell her that he is travelling out of town for business and he does not know when he will be back. He asks her to take care of herself and reminds her that her mother is due back in town by mid-March. The package itself is a flat jewellery case, containing an excessively dazzling collar of Cartier diamonds. An attempt to make amends, Iris thinks to herself. A valiant attempt indeed.

By the time Syaoran returns home, the snow has disappeared from the ground and it is warm enough to be summer. Iris intercepts him in the foyer after school, in early May. He stands in the ornate landing, looking about him as though he is lost. His daughter tries to get him from behind, but his ears are sharp as ever, and he catches her in his arms as she pounces.

Iris doesn't cry or squeal or make an embarrassment of herself. She has received countless expensive presents from him in the middle of the night. Nonetheless, she hugs him tightly, telling him that it's been three months since she last saw him (since he often forgets these things).

Syaoran doesn't answer her directly. His fingers run across the back of the Cartier necklace that, coincidentally, Iris wore to school that day.

"Did some boy give you this?" he asks, by way of greeting.

Iris sighs. Yes, she thinks to herself. This is definitely my father.

She nudges him, telling him that he gave her the necklace before he left, didn't he remember? And she wore it to school that day, and everyone loved it and thought it was so pretty -

"It looked completely different on the website," Syaoran comments with a slight frown.

Iris diplomatically decides not to reply.

They eat dinner together, undisturbed by the servants and Syaoran's perpetually-ringing cell phone. Over the simple fare, they talk about what they've been doing these last months. Or rather, Iris talks while Syaoran eats and listens. He doesn't look at her nor does he say anything. Only a small nod scattered here and there throughout her words punctuates his attentiveness.

Iris tells him everything. She tells him of her classes, of dissections in biology class and cart races in physics, of the books she reads in English class, of the tests in math that she has been acing all semester long...

"You know, I think it's because I've been helping Aya with all her work," she says thoughtfully, tapping her forehead rhythmically. "She's great at everything else, but  _math_! It's almost hopeless sometimes..."

She trails off with a bit of a laugh.

"Dad, are you even listening?" she asks suddenly, fixing her eyes on Syaoran, who has his eyes closed and appears to be sleeping.

"Who's Aya?" he responds, his words a bit muffled.

Iris indulges him eagerly. She tells him about her new friend who moved into town just the day before second semester started and how she's in all of her classes. She tells him that they've become really good friends, that Aya's genuinely nice and that she and her mother are excellent people...

"Can Aya come over tomorrow, Dad?" she asks suddenly, her eyes lighting up. "Please?"

Syaoran is caught off guard. Usually it is his wife who entertains, who knows how to handle a roomful of girls and converse civilly with their parents when they come to pick up their daughters. He feels uncomfortable in social rituals so close to home, and the last thing he needs is to be labelled by Iris's friends as the incompetent father he is.

"Dad?" Iris is waiting for an answer.

He exhales loudly, telling her that her friend can come over. As long as they entertain themselves and he doesn't have to put up with any insufferable parents.

His daughter gives him a slightly reproving Look, before thanking him enthusiastically. Syaoran closes his eyes again. Kids. So easy to please.

The next day, Iris invites Aya to her house. Aya has only been to the Li household once before, and it was during the break in March, when Iris's mother was in town. The reason for this is because Sakura does not feel comfortable sending her daughter to a house without parental approval. She does not wish to intrude upon another parent's hospitality and she has indoctrined the same belief into her daughter.

This time, Aya does the driving. By now, Aya has turned sixteen and has received her license. She drives a turquoise Lotus Elise, pre-owned but in good condition. Her father had paid for it and given it to her as a belated birthday present, and her mother pays the insurance. Iris, who turns sixteen in November, often accompanies Aya on drives. She promises that, once she gets her own license, she will pay Aya back for all the driving she has done. And they laugh.

Syaoran isn't home when they arrive at the Li household's grand entrance. Iris doesn't dwell upon it; she knows that he's probably gone off to check on the state of things in the office or something of the sort.

Because the day is warm and the sun is shining warmly, they decide to stay outside. Iris shows Aya the backyard, the blooming tulip bulbs, the giant ethereal gazebo wrapped in dark green ivy. Aya's eyes widen at the sight and they seat themselves on the sun-warmed patio. Iris jumps to her feet – she remembers that there's lemonade in the fridge and it would be perfect on a day like this. Aya, in the middle of peeling off her shoes and socks, tells her to go ahead.

While racing to the kitchen, Iris bumps into her father. From his clothing, she can tell that he has just been to the office. He asks her where she's going in such a rush and Iris replies that she's getting lemonade for herself and Aya in the backyard.

"Who's Aya?" Syaoran wants to know.

Iris lets out an exasperated groan and reminds him, none too gently, that Aya is her friend from school, the one that she'd invited over. Syaoran nods blankly and tells her to have fun. He heads into the study, and Iris watches him, shaking her head ever so slightly.

The two friends lie on their stomachs in the afternoon sun, their pencils and notebooks open but half-unattended. The sounds of their voices talking and laughing echo around the mansion, unfaltering as the sun begins to set and their shadows lengthen. At one point, Iris suggests that they go inside because it's getting cold and Aya agrees. They gather their books and pencils and calculators, shove them haphazardly into their bags and get to their feet. They slip their feet into their shoes but don't bother putting their socks back on, because school stockings are itchy and especially uncomfortable – too cold for winter, too warm for summer. Iris leads Aya through her mansion, and they meet her father by the foot of the stairwell.

Iris hails him and introduces her friend to him. Syaoran barely glances at Aya at first, but when she says hello to him, he double takes. Aya's green eyes meet his kindly, almost hesitantly and something within him slips.

Aya knows that she and her mother look alike, but there is no way that she can possibly know that she is the living, breathing image of her mother as a child. Of course, she has Sakura's eyes, but she also shares the same delicate features, the same auburn hair cropped short and tied the same way Sakura used to tie hers... She has the same small mouth, the same tiny nose, the same neck, the same hands and feet; even the school uniform she wears bears a resemblance to the one Sakura wore in her elementary school days. The only difference is the smile: when Sakura smiled, her face lit up with radiance and joy. But when Aya smiles, there is almost a hint of tragedy darkening her eyes. Despite the shape of her mouth, the colour of her lips, the exactly identical curvature of her smile – despite all this, Aya's smile makes her look older, worldier, somewhat different from the nymph-like phantom that pursues Syaoran nightly in his dreams.

He registers the difference and perhaps it is for this reason only that he doesn't mistake her for the girl in his dreams. But he feels the connection – he feels it and he recognizes it with a certainty he has never felt before. He meets her gaze hesitantly and as he does, he feels as though the nightmare has come alive again. Feeling overwhelms him, feeling that he has not experienced since he was a child – eleven years old, to be precise. He remembers vague wisps of memories, memories that never existed. He thinks he sees white feathers, floating in the moonlit sky. He hears the sound of a bell, feels something slipping away from him, slipping through his fingers and leaving him empty and hollow as always. He hears his own voice shout  _I love you!_  to thin air, before he is brought back to quiet reality, staring into the eyes of this girl who cannot be the one he has dreamed about.

He greets her politely, if not a little distantly, but he manages to appear civil. He inquires after her origins, surprised to learn that she is of Scottish birth and Chinese descent when she appears so Japanese in appearance. Aya tells him that her mother is Japanese and suddenly, he knows. Perhaps he cannot put a name to the face he has longed for, and perhaps he may not remember under which circumstances he met this curious girl who looks exactly like Aya, but the one thing he knows is that Aya is the key. He is certain that Aya is  _her_  daughter and though he does not fathom the world of opportunities that has just opened to him, he is grateful to learn that she is real and she is near. He does not know who to thank: does he thank his stars or his fate or the whim of an invisible, omniscient god? He cannot decide and settles on relinquishing his gratitude silently upon his daughter, who has brought Aya to him.

It is just before dinnertime when Aya receives a call from Sakura. She excuses herself and steps out into the hall, talking into her cell phone in quietly accented Japanese. Syaoran hears the familiar language and it brings about a wave of new memories. Iris informs him that Aya's mother is very protective and frequently phones her to keep tabs on her whereabouts. Syaoran presses the subject of Aya's mother under the guise of a curious father, and Iris eyes him appraisingly, thinking he may finally be improving. She tells him that Aya's mother is phenomenally accomplished, completing her undergraduate at St. Andrews, a combined MBA-MD degree at Stanford, and even a Ph. D in clinical psychiatry at Cambridge. But when asked about Aya's mother's name, Iris draws a blank. She has only ever called her Dr. Lee, or of late, Lee-san.

When Aya returns, they sit down to dinner. The atmosphere is more subdued than it would have been at Aya's house: in the small Lee residence, the girls are more boisterous and their liveliness is encouraged by Sakura, who looks forward to the girls' company if she is home by then. Aya does not feel entirely comfortable yet around Iris's father, a man who is powerful and at the same time, strangely fragile. She does not know of Syaoran Li and his impact on her mother's life. She does not know that his memory has dwelled in her mother's heart and home for the last twenty-five years. But she is aware of his acute loneliness and she can keenly perceive the hollowness that consumes him from within. She senses a similarity between him and her mother, and she knows enough about Iris's parents to discern that, to some extent, their situations do bear parallels. So she remains her usual compassionate self and remains open to any words he may have to say.

Iris tells Aya that they were just talking about her mother and how accomplished she is. As Syaoran's ears turn red and Iris teases him, Aya takes the opportunity with both hands. She tells Syaoran that her mother completed her psychiatry residency at Hopkins, has been conducting research on something-or-other across four continents, and recently got into publishing her findings.

"You might have heard of her under her publishing name," Aya suggests tentatively. "Saori Lee?"

"Broken Mirrors?" Syaoran asks sharply, remembering the book sitting in his library.

Aya is pleased to hear that he's heard of it, and glows inwardly when he says that he has read the book and found it fascinating. He is not lying. Though he still has a chapter left to go, he finds it fascinating that, of all the "Dr. Lee"s in the world, the only one to move him profoundly with her writing was  _her_. He tells himself that this is not a coincidence, that this cannot be a coincidence. Aya befriending Iris, Aya being her daughter, even him reading her book – and all of it at the same time. There has to be a reason for this, and he acknowledges that his scope is limited, that he may never understand the great motives behind fate's little tricks. Despite all, he feels renewed, rejuvenated almost.

Later on that evening, Aya drives herself home. Syaoran and Iris wait at the window, watching the small turquoise vehicle pull out of their expansive driveway. Syaoran doesn't realize that his daughter is observing him very closely, and, when he breaks his own rules and tells Iris that she can invite Aya over any time she likes, he misses the very small sparkle that gleams in her eyes.

It occurs to him before going to bed that he still doesn't know her name.

* * *

 


End file.
